Empty Spotlight
by Alex Kade
Summary: OW: Character reflection on his role in the Seven.


**A/N: **As promised, a brand new one already! (I'm going down my files in alphabetical order, lol) This one's a bit of a downer, so if you want to be in happy mode this isn't for you. I was in a bit of a funk the day I wrote this one, so naturally I passed it on to my characters. No deaths, just a bit of beautiful sadness.

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><p>Brocade vest hung up and stored away, golden silk cravat folded neatly in its drawer, custom made boots tucked beneath the bed, and the masks all gone, dissolved into the moonlit-night sky where the stars would hold their secrets until the dawn's first light.<p>

_God _he was tired. Tired of playing his part. Tired of the false smiles, the perfectly cued laughter, the appropriate clever comment. Tired of hiding the burning tears, the stabbing pain of loneliness, the pleading requests for someone to love him.

He looked off into the distance and pondered on leaving, returning to a life spent alone, caring only for himself, and not trying so hard to fit in only to be brushed aside the moment he thought he had succeeded.

It hurt. It hurt to be surrounded by so many people, and yet still be so utterly and consistently forced to the fringes. His place was on the outside looking in; he knew it, they knew it. Should he forget, they would remind him, and it would kill him just a little bit more each time.

At least if he were on his own there'd be a reason to be lonely. The empty seat beside him at the bar wouldn't signify that nobody wished to share his companionship; it simply meant that no one wanted to sit by a stranger. The trip to the theater spent in solitary silence would not be a sign that none of his associates wished to share his hobbies; it was just a case of not having a friend within reasonable distance to share a ticket with. A ride to an unknown city was risked without a partner not because no one cared enough to watch his back; of course it was an impossibility if all his 'friends' were too far away to assist.

When he was alone he could pretend. He could pretend that the crushing, suffocating feeling of being unwanted was warranted by the fact that there was simply no one physically around to want.

In a group, though, he couldn't make excuses amongst those who should be his peers. He was the tagalong, the extra wheel, the one that caused people to roll their eyes when they thought he wasn't looking, the one that made them say, "Oh, he's going? I'll find something else to do, then."

In a group surrounded by the people he so longed to fit in with, he could _never_ feel more alone.

Yes, it would just be easier for him to ride out, leave it all behind, make excuses for the knowledge that nobody wanted him. Yes, they would feel guilty then, would ask him to come back, would question why he was upset, would seem genuinely concerned for him.

He could tell them the truth, and they would try to understand, and they would apologize, and they would say they'd do better next time. It wouldn't last. It never did. They'd eventually forget again and his growing comfort at being included in the circle would be torn from his bleeding heart with careless abandon.

Or he could lie. He could tell them he was fine, that he just needed some breathing room, that he had no intention of leaving for any extended period of time. They wouldn't believe him. They'd give him a questioning look, would watch him for a while, would still show that concern because on some small level, god bless them, they did care.

Just not enough.

Either way the results would be the same. He'd have to keep his masks in place, live as if each barb didn't cut his tough exterior, cry the hateful tears on the inside where they would fill his very soul until he could escape into the night to release them.

Then, only then, could he allow the dam to break. The moon would cry with him and the stars would never spill a word. A river of his sorrows would run into the earth, the plants drinking up his pain and sprouting thorns to thrust it back. He would cry until there was nothing left to drain, and he would compose himself, and reach up to reclaim his masks from their keepers in the heavens.

He could leave and be alone, should leave and be alone, but not just yet. He had a show to put on, had his lines to deliver, had an audience that he could not disappoint. His place marker was set; he knew where he stood.

The curtain was rising.

He took a deep breath and stepped again onto that awful, empty stage, wondering how many bullets would pierce his heart before the curtain dropped, wondering if the muscle weren't already entirely replaced with heavy molten lead. It didn't matter. One day the curtain would drop on the final finale, the end of his role, the end of his pain.

Not today, though. Today he met his audience with a witty smile and a deep bow. Today the show would go on.


End file.
